


wings and other broken things

by wingedgrace



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Body Modification, Court of Owls, Dehumanization, Dick Grayson Gets a Hug, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Torture, Partial Memory Loss, Recovery, Self-Harm, Trauma, Wings, it's slow but it's still there, lots of heavy stuff but there's a really cute scene with cookies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23483527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedgrace/pseuds/wingedgrace
Summary: He doesn’t like his wings.He doesn’t remember much from before, but he knows he didn’t have wings.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Everyone, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd
Comments: 415
Kudos: 935





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by some amazing [art](https://coaptations.tumblr.com/post/184588078269/welcome-to-my-dick-grayson-talon-au-the-court) and [headcanons](https://coaptations.tumblr.com/post/185760800579/sweet-undead-angel-boy-just-some-quick-pose) I came across by coaptations on Tumblr. I love Talon AUs and I've been meaning to write one of my own for a while, and I came across this and. Wow. So I grabbed a few awesome bits and added in some of my own angst and out came this fic. Enjoy :)

He doesn’t like his wings.

He doesn’t remember much from before, but he knows he didn’t have wings.

He hears the man approach and doesn’t bother turning around. The footfalls are heavy, but not calculated and precise, like the Bat Man. These have more personality. It must be the younger one, with the white streak of hair.

“Hey,” the man says.

Talon doesn’t turn around, just hugs his knees closer to his chest.

“You okay?”

Talon tucks his wings a little more snugly around himself. It’s stupid, it’s dumb, it won’t prevent him from getting hurt – his wings still feel pain if they’re injured – but it makes him feel safer, with his body more protected.

“Dick?”

He shakes his head. Not anymore. That name belonged to the man who fought alongside the rest of the Bats, and hadn’t had wings grafted onto his back yet. Been experimented on until his bones were strong enough to support the new appendages yet light enough to actually fly. Been pumped with enough chemical fluids to force his cells to change; give him regeneration abilities. Been “re-trained” by the other Talons so brutally that he’d died, dozens of times, only for his bones and tendons and muscles to knit themselves back together and pull him back into the land of the living.

They said it would stop hurting, after enough time had gone by. They said he would stop feeling, once he gave in to what the Owls wanted.

The Bats had taken the Court down before that had happened, though. So he isn’t the man he used to be, and he hadn’t had time to be fully reborn as a weapon – a Talon – unthinking, unfeeling, inhuman. He is somewhere in-between, too much humanity stripped away to ever be normal again, but with the hurt and trauma intact. The Court had taken so much already; he wished they had just taken his emotions, too.

“How are you feeling?”

He takes his head up from his knees and looks the man – brother, his mind supplies – in the eyes. He trusts this one, remembers loving this one. But it’s all so muddled, and the memories are too far away.

“Do you –“ the brother looks pained. “Do you remember us, Dick?”

Yes. No. He doesn’t know. Talon doesn’t have any memories aside from his time with the Court, really, just impressions and feelings. He knows he’s been in this house before; knows he trusts these people, these Bats. He doesn’t recall any specific events.

He remembers, with clarity, the missions. The pain. The swords thrust through his chest in training. The assassinations he completed. The only words he was allowed to say. “The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

The brother flinches, slightly, at those words, and then says gently, “The Court is gone, Dick. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

Gone?

“Look.” A phone is held in front of his face. A news article. The Grandmaster, in handcuffs, along with many members of the Court. “We exposed them all. All of them, Dick. The ones that haven’t been arrested yet are on the run, far from Gotham, and we’re tracking them down one by one. Your friends at Spyral are helping, actually. There’s less than a dozen Owls free.”

Talon blinks. Absurdly, all he can wonder is if his eyes have changed colour yet, from their old bright blue to the unnatural yellow glow that the other Talons have. At least his skin never changed colour to the awful dark-veined, vampire pale complexion of the others. He’d been given a different strain of serum, being their first winged Talon. The prototype. The lab rat.

“You haven’t said anything since we brought you back to the manor.” His hand combs the white streak back away from his forehead, before it flops right back down again, even messier than before. “It’s been weeks, Dick.”

Weeks? Has he really been free that long?

He looks down at himself. They gave him pants, sweatpants, but of course there weren’t any shirts that fit over his wings. One of the younger Bats had cut holes in the back of a t-shirt for him, but it would have felt even worse, to pull clothing over the wings. Made him feel even less human. So far removed from human that he had to alter clothing before he could wear it. Like an animal, or a pet.

“You’re allowed to speak.”

Talon looks closely at the other, who seems pained.

“We won’t hurt you, or judge you.”

He wants to believe that. But speaking his mind – speaking out of turn – had only ever earned him pain. He trusts the brother, sure, but his fear is much more real and vivid than the nearly-erased memories of his past life. The helplessness of being punished at the hands of another Talon. Hating them for being robotic and unfeeling, but envying them for their peace of mind.

He shivers. And then he feels a blanket being draped over him. All of him. Head, wings, legs.

The leftover blanket (it’s a big blanket) is wrapped around the other, holding a book.

“It’s okay.” The voice is kind; quiet. “You don’t have to talk. We can just sit here.”

There is no sound other than the crisp flipping of pages. It feels evil, somehow, to sneak reading some of the lines. Like eavesdropping on a conversation. He half expects to get whipped and locked away in a cell for a few days, so he can learn his lesson.

But nothing happens, not even an hour later. So he dares to read a few more sentences, and then a few more, and then a few chapters. It’s a good book. It’s too far in to have any idea what’s going on, of course, but it’s still enjoyable.

And then Talon freezes, because the brother is _leaning against his wings_.

No one’s touched them except to poke and prod at them. No one’s treated them like they’re normal, because they aren’t, because they’re a horrible mad science experiment permanently attached to him and he can’t get them off, can’t rip them off because he heals from everything now. He tried to cut them off once because they don’t belong there, they shouldn’t be there, and there was so much blood and pain and the Owls laughed at him as the wings grew back because they were his, now, and he’d better get used to them, and he felt so ugly and small and helpless and like an abused performing circus animal, to be trained and groomed into something. And he knew that even if he escaped he would never be normal again; never feel human again, and everyone would stare and gawk, and pity him or make fun of him or demand he be locked away.

But his brother leans against him like it’s just another part of his body. As if it doesn’t matter how he got them; as if he isn’t any less of a person for them. He feels more monster than human, and he doesn’t deserve this kind of gentle acceptance, and yet he has it.

He has no idea what to do, so he holds very, very still. Hoping that he doesn’t lose this…whatever it is, because he thinks he likes it.

And his brother doesn’t move away; just stays lightly pressed against his wing. Slowly, slowly, he allows himself to relax, his arms clenched around his knees with slightly less force than before. Breathing less shallow, so that his body moves just a little; pushes against his brother a little. The warmth is solid and doesn’t leave his side, even with this added movement, so he loosens even further, breathing as deeply as he wants to; comfortably.

He starts reading along again, hopelessly behind in the plot but still enjoying the rhythm of the words, and leans back against his brother. He’s still…himself, but he can almost forget the horror of what happened to him, lost in the world printed on the pages and in the warmth of the blanket and his brother. Until an hour later, when the last page of the book is flipped over, and then the cover is snapped shut. The book is laid aside.

“What happened to you wasn’t your fault.”

He shivers, despite the heat built up underneath the blanket and his brother’s shoulder pressed against him.

“You were so strong, to go through all that.”

He doesn’t feel very strong. He feels weak, and scared. He knows he’s even more powerful now than he was before all the enhancement procedures, but he feels so much _less_.

“But you’re safe, now. And you don’t have to be strong, or silent, or whatever they wanted you to be, or whatever you think we want you to be. Or even whatever you wish you were. You can just be you, the you that you are now. And we’ll worry about all that other stuff later.”

He feels something loud and desperate rise in his chest and tries frantically to shove it down. No, no, no, he’s not allowed to make that noise, he’s not allowed, he grinds his jaw shut as tightly as he can and tries to steady his breathing. Tries to stop his shoulders from shaking.

And then Jason puts his arms _all the way around him_ , even around the wings, not like he’s ignoring them and pretending everything is normal, but like he cares for him, for all of him, pain and brainwashing and wings combined with the person he used to be, and Dick can’t rein in the emotion anymore and some of it escapes, in a single strangled cry from a throat rough from disuse.

He tenses, waiting for the strike, waiting for the lashes to begin, but nothing happens.

“It’s okay, Dick. Let it all out.”

So he does.

He thought he’d forgotten how, it’s been so long since he was allowed to – to do anything. But the sobs come in fits and spurts, and then with increasing vigour, and the tears pour out, and he screams. He’s shuddering and he’s falling apart but Jason’s arms are still around him, holding him together, so he lets go and screams and sobs and shudders uncontrollably but it’s finally okay, he’s finally allowed, and the anguish is so deep it hurts his whole body but it feels so, so good to release all the pressure.

He weeps and he grieves the loss of his body, of his old regular human bones too heavy for flight. Of his unaltered body tissue, free from electrum serums and unnatural regeneration abilities. He grieves the loss of his memories. Of the person he used to be.

He’s crying so forcefully his whole body is shaking violently, mourning the loss of his identity, of his personhood. Of his sense of self. Of being abused into a shell of the hero he was before. Of being treated like an object, like property, to be experimented on and controlled at the whim of the Court. Being weak enough to cave in and kill the people they told him too, because he just wanted the pain to stop. Being ashamed of himself, inside and out. Being trapped in the body they created for him, even after the Court was dismantled and swept away. Still a prisoner in his own body; his own mind.

They changed his _bones_. They didn’t just condition his brain, warp his mind – something that he could dare to hope was fixable, repairable – they changed his _body_. Even if he manages to heal from all the trauma and his thoughts are free, his cells will still be irreversibly different. His DNA has been played with. Edited. Rewritten. He will never escape that.

He feels like he used to sound more human, when he cried. Before. The sounds pouring from his lungs are more like shrieking than anything else. But Jason doesn’t pull away; isn’t disgusted by him. The arms stay around him, and his wings, even though his wails are loud and ugly.

And so they sit, for hours, and he cries. 

He’s so exhausted he almost falls asleep. Talons aren’t supposed to get tired, they have a healing factor for that, but Talons aren’t supposed to feel emotion, either. His breakdown is probably why he feels tired enough to sleep for a year.

His brother must think he actually has drifted to sleep, because he feels himself being carefully lowered into a laying position. He holds himself limp as his brother sets him down and tiptoes out of the room.

“How is he?” The voice is deep, and outside the room. Bat Man.

“Not – not great.” He can hear the wince in his brother's words.

He almost drifts asleep in the silent break of the conversation, but forces his mind to listen. He wants to know what they think about him.

“Bruce, he’s so touch-starved. I gave him a hug and he _broke_.”

He scratches at his wings anxiously. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

“He’s still so scared around us.” Batm – Bruce’s tone sounds weary. “How did you manage not to spook him when you touched him?”

“He’s not an animal, Bruce. He’s a person. He’s your son. Spend time with him. I read with him for almost four hours before I hugged him.”

It should bother him, that they are talking about how to handle him like this, but for some reason it doesn’t. He just feels amazed they’re trying so hard for him. Like he isn’t pathetic and ruined, but someone worth trying for, worth being patient for, even though he’s making things difficult.

“What do you…suggest?”

His brother scoffs. “Geez, you’re taking advice from me now? Me?”

“Jason-"

“You want help patching up your favourite son but you’ll never take anything the Red Hood says into consideration-"

“Not here.”

He holds his breath, hoping they can’t tell he is still awake. Are they looking into the room at him? Are they looking at each other, silhouetted in the doorway? The quiet stretches on and on.

“Fine. If you really…” and then the voices are too quiet to hear, as they walk away from the room, and he can’t hear the rest of the conversation.

Talon lays there, not sleeping, and just thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the next chapter almost finished! So you shouldn't have to wait too long for an update. Lemme know what you think so far, if you want, thanks


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second chapter? So soon? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> Also if you're following my other fic don't worry, I haven't forgotten it! Working on the last chapter right now.

Talon is sitting up high, where he feels just a little bit safer. The Court encouraged him to hide himself above his marks, his prey, before swooping down, wings helping him glide and land silently. And he feels that maybe even before the Court, this was something he liked to do.

The platform swings, a little bit, from where it hangs from the ceiling, so he carefully shifts his centre of balance and moves one wing out a few inches to even out his weight. It takes enough focus and concentration that it’s steadying; calming.

“Hi, Dick,” says Bat Man from somewhere below him, and Talon startles enough to make the platform sway again. “Why are you up on the chandelier?”

Talon goes rigid. Is he doing something wrong? Is he not supposed to be here?

“I know you won’t hurt yourself, but the chandelier wasn’t made to hold your weight.”

He feels guilt pierce through his heart like a knife. He almost broke something, after all they’ve done for him. He carefully drops off the side into a controlled fall, using his wings to slow his movement and the balls of his feet to catch him silently. He bows his head and sinks to his knees in submission, shaking, hoping his punishment won’t be too severe.

“I – I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m not going to hurt you, Dick.”

It must be a trick. He remains frozen in the position that the Court taught him.

“It’s okay, you weren’t trying to break it.” A pause. “We can even reinforce the anchor in the ceiling, if you like it up there.”

He dares to raise his eyes from the ground, confusion overpowering his fear. He broke a rule, but he isn’t being whipped for it? The man is even offering to accommodate him if he likes it up there. On top of the platform – no – the chandelier.

The Bat Man smiles at him, but his eyes look sad.

Talon stays there, on the ground, unable to move until someone officially excuses him or dismisses him.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, the man drops down to kneel as well, making them much closer to eye level than before. Talon is not sure what is happening. His masters in the Court never lowered themselves to his position; always lorded their power over him.

“You used to do that, when you were a kid.” The words are gentle, quiet. Non-threatening. He sees a small glint of something warm and amused in Batman’s eyes, hiding behind the sadness. “It used to scare me and Alfred, seeing you up there, because you were so young and small. You were…eight, I think.”

Talon tries to imagine himself, shorter and wingless, curled up on the top of the chandelier.

“The only possible way you could have gotten up there, back then, would have been to run on top of the bannister at the top of those stairs, and take a flying leap onto the chandelier, with three stories of free fall below you.”

Talon looks up and tries to remember. He can almost feel the phantom sensation of the polished, ornate railing underneath his bare feet. He sneaks a glance at Bruce again, to check his expression, but the man truly isn’t angry with him. He just looks thoughtful.

They kneel there, Talon still unsure of his place and what he is and isn’t allowed to do, and Bruce seems to have run out of words. He thinks that remaining in this position used to make his muscles stiff and achy, but the regenerative serum coursing through his veins prevents that.

Bruce tries again: “I know you don't need to eat, anymore, but you might still enjoy the taste. Do you want to go try eating some of Alfred’s cookies in the kitchen?”

It doesn’t really matter what Talon wants, so he stays still, waiting for the decision to be made.

“You can go wherever you want in the manor, Dick, but you can also follow me, if you want.” Bruce rises off the ground, and Talon can hear his knees pop. He wonders if Bruce has bad knees, or if Talon’s hearing is simply augmented to the point that he can hear things he didn’t used to be able to.

But he’s been given permission to get up now, he realizes, and quickly stands to his feet, uncertain what to do. He hasn’t been given an order, just two options, and. He doesn’t know what to do.

Bruce smiles at him again, kind but sad, and walks off in what Talon assumes is the direction of the kitchen. He feels something content and nostalgic at the mention of Alfred and cookies, so he cautiously follows Bruce several paces behind, checking to make sure the man’s body language isn’t tightening into aggression. This path seems familiar, but he can’t actually remember ever being here before.

Bruce walks in to a room and Talon hovers in the doorway, wary.

“Try it.” Bruce reaches into a jar and pulls out a cookie. “You don’t have to finish eating it if you don’t like the taste anymore.”

Talon frowns, trying to perceive Bruce’s intent. Some of the members of the Court used to taunt him with things he didn’t deserve, and then they’d punish him for wanting what he wasn’t allowed to have. But there is no malice in Bruce’s expression, so after a few minutes he shuffles closer to the food and takes it, careful not to touch Bruce’s hand. No contact allowed except for sparring with the Talons and completing assassinations.

Bruce takes one himself and eats it without ceremony, so Talon figures it’s safe to take a bite, and oh.

His tongue feels so happy.

His jaw remembers the mechanical action of chewing, even if he hasn’t done it in a while. His mouth likes the feel and taste of it, used to only the slippery coppery explosion of blood after failing to block a blow in training. He savours the food with tiny bites.

Bruce watches him eat it; seems to enjoy the fact that Talon’s lips are curling up a little, just in the corners.

“You can have another one, if you like it.”

Another one? Not just one, but two, even though his body doesn’t need food anymore? It seems too good to be true, but there are no lies hidden in Bruce’s face.

And when he puts the last of it in his mouth, even though he’s still chewing it, Bruce holds out a whole, new cookie. Like Bruce is…eager, to give him the gift, and can’t wait until he is done the first one.

So he takes it, and eats it, and it’s just as good as the first one. He wants to say thanks, but he still knows better than to speak. So he munches on the second cookie and tries to smile back at Bruce; tries to show his gratitude.

Bruce’s eyes light up, and Dick knows he must understand, and his chest feels light and happy, like a hug but on the inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was blown away by the support for the first chapter! Thanks so much for all the lovely comments!!
> 
> I'm editing the third chapter right now so the next update should get posted pretty soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated. See end notes for trigger warnings. I might not always include trigger warnings specific to each chapter, but my tags should have everything listed. Please let me know if there's anything else I should tag.

The house is big and empty and he’s alone.

The house is big and empty and everyone is always busy during the day, doing school or work or something else, and at night everyone is out on patrol, and when they’re doing neither of those things they’re usually sleeping.

The house is big and empty and even though at least one of them talks to him every (day? few hours? he’s not very good at keeping track of time anymore) most of the time he’s alone.

He’s alone, and he has so many thoughts. The Court didn’t give him much time to think. He was constantly training, being hit with fists and feet and swords and shuriken until he was incapacitated by pain, blood loss, or he actually died. The Talons would only wait until he’d healed enough to fight back, and then they’d attack again, so he was more or less in a constant state of pain.

If he broke a rule they’d punish him, but he was never allowed to fight back. If he did, they’d lengthen his punishment by something like giving him extra lashes, or leaving blades through his organs so he was stuck in an excruciating, constant state of bleeding out and regeneration.

Sometimes the Owls would have him kneel before their assembled Court, and they would explain new rules or task him with a mission. He wasn’t in pain, then, but his mind was very focused, trying his best to memorize the instructions word for word. Failure was never tolerated. And he was always very diligently focused during a mission, sneaking in the shadows and killing or stealing. He didn’t like doing those jobs – they always made his heart feel dirty – but they were good for distracting his thoughts.

The house of the Bats has none of that. They have told him not to fight the other Bats, so that means no training. They also said that they would never punish him, and though Talon is skeptical of that, it seems to so far be true. And they told him he isn’t allowed to go on patrol with them yet, until they are sure he won’t kill anyone.

That part is fine. Talon doesn’t like killing.

But there are not very many rules. And Talon has so much time, alone, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

He doesn’t like being in pain – in fact, he’s terrified of it – but at least he understood it. He would focus on the pain and on his breaths and his thoughts would drift away, leaving behind only sensation. He doesn’t miss the punishments, but he misses the way they would quiet his thoughts. It was almost peaceful.

The house is big and empty and he’s alone, he’s alone, and he can’t stand it, he’s alone and he hasn’t been able to bring himself to look into a mirror because he wants to pretend his eyes are still blue, he knows they’re probably that ugly yellow and he already hates his whole body and he can’t stand the idea that his eyes may have changed too –

Talon tries to breathe slowly to calm the speed that his brain is working, jumping from one awful chain of thoughts to the next –

And oh God what about all the other people he must have known before this, he doesn’t even remember them but they deserve to know what happened to their friend, or co-worker, or whoever he was to them; maybe the Bats told them but he doubts they would have known every single person he’d ever talked with and his life was stolen from him, his plans and his dreams and his body and his relationships and he can’t even remember everything the Court took from him and that makes it even worse –

Breathe, breathe, breathe –

He can’t, he can’t, the house is big and empty and he’s alone he’s alone he’s alone with his thoughts and he can’t stand it and his skin is thrumming with the need for something, something, he needs something to ground him, some stimulation, the house is too big and empty and he’s alone –

He runs without really thinking to the kitchen, looking for something, anything, he’s trespassing and he probably broke a rule and his mind aches with the uncertainty of it, he’s alone, there’s no one to tell him what to do –

He can’t, he can’t, the house is big and empty and he’s alone and his thoughts are jumbled and jagged and cut into his mind so deeply that he hurts and there’s too much emotion and it’s all too much and also not enough and he can’t stand it –

He sees a knife block and grabs the handle of a big one and sets the blade to his thigh and pushes.

It hurts like hell.

He knows he severed a ton of nerves, and a large artery and vein. Blood pours out.

He pulls the knife out.

He bleeds profusely for the next few minutes, leg screaming while the nerves reconnect themselves, and the torn muscle pulls together. The bleeding lessens, tapering down until the vein and artery become whole.

Talon hadn’t realized it before, but he’s become very accustomed to using pain to ground him because the Owls had allowed him little else.

It worked, but now the thoughts are starting to flow back in and he feels so pathetic that he can’t control his thoughts even though he’s free now and his skin is itching and buzzing and thrumming and he can’t concentrate and his leg has almost completely healed and the house is big and empty and he’s alone –

“No!”

He jumps, startled, whipping around to face the kitchen door. The girl standing there – Orphan? Cass? – looks upset.

Talon looks down at the filthy blade in his hand, and the pool of blood, probably a couple litres worth. He looks back up at the girl, understanding her distress. He rips the new hole in his pants apart, to show her the newly healed skin. He tilts his thigh towards her to say, it’s okay, see?

She shakes her short black hair. “I see…thought. See heart.”

Talon cocks his head.

She walks closer to him. “I…hear body…talk.”

Talon remains very, very still as she reaches her hand out, touching fingertips to the middle of his chest. Her skin is darker than his. Both are covered in scars.

“You…scream. And no one…here. To listen.”

Her stature is shorter but she feels so much bigger and older and wiser than him.

“Better way to quiet this-“ she points to his forehead –“than this.” She points to the knife.

Ashamed, he unclenches his fist, letting the blade fall to the ground.

“No,” she says again sternly. Gently. “No shame. No…hurt you. I am help.”

He blinks in confusion, but her words steady him.

She takes her hand from his chest and holds his hand, the one with a few smudges of blood on it, and he tenses.

“Okay?” she asks.

It surprises Talon, that she asks him for permission. That she thinks he deserves to choose who helps him or hurts him. He gives a shallow nod.

Cass smiles and leads him forward, out of the kitchen. He likes the feeling of her hand around his, warm and soft and gentle. No hard armour or cold burn of steel. No leather straps and restraints. Just a gentle reminder that he is not alone.

They traverse down a few hallways, ending up in a cozy room with some couches and books. Cass motions towards the biggest couch, so he sits on it, bunching up his knees to his chest.

She takes a whole pile of blankets from a bin in the corner, and plops beside him on the couch, arranging the fabric around the both of them. “Okay?”

Dick nods, feeling very warm. His skin doesn’t have that awful achy thrum anymore.

“Better,” she agrees, looking at the loosening tension in his muscles with approval. “Next time.”

Cass’s words aren’t as polished as Bruce’s and Jason’s, but he understands her just as well. Next time he feels like this, he should come to her instead.

“Promise.” It isn’t a question, but a statement. She will promise to be here for him, and he needs to promise to find her instead of the big chef’s knife in the kitchen.

He nods again.

She smiles brightly before snuggling against his side. Against his wing.

He made her happy, even though he did something wrong. He did a bad thing, which must mean he broke a rule of the house even though he didn’t know what it was. But here she is, leaning against his ugly body, trying to protect it from the knife like it’s something precious. He doesn’t understand why she values him so much, but he’s grateful.

He wants to maybe tuck his arms around her, like Jason did to him. Maybe that would be a good way of showing his thanks. But he’s scared; remembers offering a hand once to a Talon he knocked down in training. Instead of accepting the offer to be helped to their feet, the other Talon had sliced his arm off with their metal claws.

She seems to read the intention in his limbs, though, and gently reaches for his arms, guiding them around her shoulders.

It’s been so long since he’s hugged someone that he almost forgets what to do. His arms rest limply around her for a while before he gathers the courage to tighten them, just a little, the pressure just enough to tell Cass that he appreciates her. She relaxes completely, and he realizes that this isn’t only something she’s doing to help him – she wants to be held, as well. He doesn’t really remember her history, but it had something to do with being hurt, and being raised to hurt others. She probably didn’t get many hugs, either.

It feels so good to be able to help someone else. It feels like something he would have done, before the Court. It makes him feel less broken, like he’s still good for something. Like the Owls haven’t stolen everything.

And Cass has promised to be there for him. His sweet, understanding sister. So much bigger and stronger than her short height suggests. Trusting him to hold her and not harm her, despite everything he’s done and who he’s become. Willing to spend time with him.

The house may be big and empty, but he is not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: depictions of self-harm.
> 
> I know this is a heavier chapter but it felt necessary to where Dick is at, so. I'm sorry. At least there was a nice hug at the end.
> 
> As always, please leave a comment and let me know what you thought!! Thanks guys!


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m sorry.”

Talon lifts his head from his knees to observe one of the middle children approaching him.

“It was my idea.” The kid scratches the back of his head, right above the nape of his neck. “You were scared of everyone hurting you, so I said we should give you space. If there were always people in the manor but they weren’t constantly watching you, you might want to go find them on your own. It might seem safer to you if you initiated it, if it was your choice to be with people, rather than everyone just hovering around you.”

Was that why? Talon thought it was because they were too busy to waste time on him.

“But Cass said that-“ the boy swallows. “God, Dick. I’m so sorry.”

Talon shrugs. It’s okay.

“You aren’t alone now, okay? If you want space to yourself you can leave the room because you aren’t a prisoner here. But there will always be someone in the house with you. Cass will be here most of the time, and if she needs to go on patrol or whatever, someone else will come here to be with you before she leaves.” There’s a slight blush in his cheeks. “I made a schedule, actually. Just to be sure.”

Talon can’t believe the amount of energy these people are putting into a broken creature like himself. He feels bad about taking up so much of their time, but he can’t deny that it’s incredibly comforting to know they care.

“Please don’t hurt yourself again, okay?” Tim whispers.

Oh.

Talon thought the blade would only hurt him, but it ended up hurting the family, as well. He tries to think of a way to make his brother feel better.

He’s wearing new sweatpants, without blood and a knife hole, so he grabs the fabric at his thigh and rips it open. He gestures at the smooth, unmarked skin.

“I know you heal, but.” Tim struggles to articulate. “Think about it like this, okay: Batman and Robin, and the whole family. We do what we do to save people from getting hurt, right? We track down people who torture and ruin lives and help the police lock them up. Because we want to keep people safe.”

Talon nods, not sure what Tim’s point is.

“Because we value people.” Tim fidgets with his shirt sleeves. “We don’t want them to be hurt.”

Talon is still confused, so he waits until Tim has gathered his thoughts.

“We rescued you from the Court of Owls because, well, that’s what we would have done for anyone, but. You’re _family,_ Dick. We love you. We don’t want to see you hurt.”

Talon doesn’t see what that has to do with anything–

Oh.

“You don’t deserve pain, okay?” Tim says quietly.

It makes him feel a little frustrated. He knows that, okay, but his mind was hurting so badly and he couldn’t think and it just _happened_. He’s not used to living without pain. It’s almost comforting in its familiarity.

“Cass said that it helped calm your mind to be with people, and uh. Touch and hug and stuff.” Tim says it matter-of-factly, and Talon feels like his psyche is being pulled apart and analyzed. But not like the Owls and Talons did spitefully, breaking him down cruelly and enjoying it. Just in a way that explains Talon’s confusing thoughts and helps him understand better.

He nods.

“So – and I discussed this with everyone first, just so you know, and they all agreed – if you need a hug, or something, you’re allowed to hug first. You don’t have to wait for someone to touch you first. As long as you’re not, like, sneaking up on someone and scaring them, it’s okay to hug them. Whenever you want it or need it.”

Huh. It’s a bit intimidating to think of touching someone first. He thinks about the Owls, and about how the only touch was pain, and if he reached out it always resulted in more pain because it was against the rules.

But Tim says the family rules are to stop other people from being in pain, and that he doesn’t deserve pain. And he says the family talked and made a new rule, one where he’s allowed to hug people whenever he needs it.

That sounds…really nice.

Tim stands there, unsure, like he’s reached the end of a script and doesn’t know what else to say. Dick wants to tell his little brother how much it means to him, that his care and hard work is appreciated, and he wishes he wasn’t so terrified of talking out loud.

Well, he’s comfortable saying exactly one sentence out loud, but he doesn’t think ‘the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die’ is a very appropriate line right now.

Dick unlatches his arms from their hold around his legs and straightens his knees. Tim seems permissive of the movement even when he stands up, so before he loses his courage he reminds himself of the new rule and darts towards Tim and clumsily puts his arms around him.

Tim stiffens, but only initially, and then he returns the embrace strongly.

Dick pulls his wings away from his body, so Tim’s arms have room to wrap around his waist only, wings overtop. It’s different than when Jason held him, because Jason had long enough arms to wrap around his wings, too. It made him feel protected. But Tim’s hug isn’t better or worse, just different. It’s closer; snugger.

It feels really nice. And he knows he made the right call, too, because the hug definitely made Tim happier.

They hold onto each other for a while, and then it occurs to Dick that he doesn’t remember how long a hug is supposed to last. Should he – is he supposed to break away first, since he initiated it, or does he wait until Tim is ready? How should he know when Tim is done? If Tim’s muscles felt fidgety and restless that might give him a clue, but Tim has carefully kept himself still, which is very soothing but doesn’t give him any clues as to what to do –

Tim pulls away just enough that he can look Dick in the eyes. His face is a mixture of laughter and sorrow, reminding him a little of Bruce.

“Dick, you can end the hug whenever you feel comfortable, okay?” Tim’s eyes are wet, but the corners of his mouth are turning up. “You get to decide. If you want the hug, or if you want it to be over.”

Dick experimentally pulls his arms away from Tim, who reciprocates. He feels slightly stupid for having forgotten how simply a hug works, but Tim just looks at him with understanding and not a shred of judgement.

No pity, or condescension. It makes him almost feel human again.

“I’m going to work on a paper, now.” Tim rolls his eyes. “Bruce made a big deal about me finishing high school, even though I know all that stuff already. So I have to type an essay for one of my classes.”

Tim reaches for a laptop on the couch, which he must have brought into the room earlier. “You can stay here with me, or wander around the manor by yourself. There’s food in the kitchen if you want. It’s up to you.”

Dick likes the sound of food (are cookies food, or are they dessert?) but he likes the idea of being with Tim even more, so he sits down on the couch beside his brother. 

Tim flips the top of his computer open, the screen filled with several different sized tabs. Dick watches with interest as he multitasks between reading articles and typing and searching, the programs all resized to fit together, filling the screen like puzzle pieces. After a while Tim seems to have found everything he needs to, closing everything except two tabs, fixing them so one is a third of the screen and the other is two thirds.

Tim types with a steady rhythm, filling the room with a calming, repetitive click-clack noise. It’s relaxing to listen to, and it keeps his mind anchored in the present instead of drifting into wild, unchecked anxiety. He lets his focus hone in on Tim’s fingers tapping away on the keyboard, and it grounds him pleasantly, in a way the knife never could. In a way that doesn’t batter his thoughts into submission, but allows his brain to relax enough to let go of some of the negative thoughts. In a way that makes his emotions feel…better. The tempo is soothing, and he allows himself to relax.

The house is big but doesn’t it sound so empty, anymore. And he’s not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme know thoughts, questions, what you liked!
> 
> Fifth chapter should be out...Friday? Saturday? It's complete but needs heavy revision and I'm busy until the weekend.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha oops, I said this would probably be out by Saturday. But I mean, I'm only a day late.

Dick is sitting on his heels on the arm of the couch watching Cass run through a kata. It’s late afternoon and golden sun is streaming through the tall floor-to-ceiling windows, filling the room with a pleasant, lazy warmth.

Cass had offered to do the kata together with him, but it felt dangerously similar to training, which was almost sparring, and he isn’t allowed to attack the family. They still aren’t sure how deep the brainwashing is rooted in his mind. Bruce had explained that he didn’t want the physicality of fighting to snap him back into the Court’s conditioning.

Dick really doesn’t want to hurt anyone, so he’s perfectly okay with that rule. And even though the non-contact movements probably don't count as fighting, he would much rather to err on the side of caution with the rules. Plus, he’s happy enough to observe his sister, her motions fluid and graceful, making the simple kata almost more like a dance.

It’s such a stark contrast to the joyless, cold, artificially lit underground training facility that the Court had kept him in.

He perches comfortably on the couch arm, stretching his wings occasionally. Scrunching up his bare toes to feel the texture of the fabric. He isn’t fidgeting, exactly, but just enjoying the freedom to move a little on his own terms, instead of having his every movement dictated by the Owls. He rubs his fingers along the cuff of his sweatpants, thumb sliding across the seam and the fuzz on the inside. The pants are soft and keep his legs toasty, and the sunlight warms his bare upper body. He feels peaceful; content.

Damian walks past the doorway on his way down the hall, school uniform on and backpack slung across his shoulders. Dick smiles at him happily. He hasn’t seen his younger brother since being rescued from the Court. And even then, Robin had been more focused on fighting their way to freedom than having a conversation.

Damian looks at him, eyes darting to the wings and back to Dick’s face, before averting his gaze, face twitching into an emotion he almost succeeds in hiding. Then Damian continues down the hallway.

He feels something crumple inside him.

Not for the first time, Talon wishes he could tear off the wings without them growing back. He knows he’s a freak, now. He knows how he must look to everyone else. He doesn’t want to drive people away, doesn’t want to be alone, he hates the body the Court created for him, he hates it, he’s disgusting and ugly and ruined and he doesn’t deserve to be cared for by anyone, anymore, he’s nothing but a tool –

Talon slides off the raised arm of the seat and onto the cushions in the centre, curling up small and pushing his face into the back to muffle his tears. He cries as silently as possible, he’s not supposed to make noise, all he wants to do is scream but he knows he doesn’t deserve to express his displeasure with words or with sobs –

“Dick.”

He’s useless, worthless –

“Look at me.”

It’s a command, and he can’t refuse those. He sniffles pathetically and pulls his head away from the back of the chair.

The girl is sitting beside him patiently. Talon swallows the tears as best he can.

“Not true.” Her admonishment is tender.

He rubs his eyes, trying to scrub the tears out. His face is damp, too, and he tries his best to wipe it dry.

“Not a monster,” she says softly. “Not ugly.”

Talon wants to believe her, he really does. But he hugs his arms around his chest and he can _feel_ how the bones are slimmer, lighter; stronger. Tweaked and enhanced for flight. His body changed and reformed without his consent and he feels violated and wrong and inhuman.

“Different,” she continues. “But not…the big things.”

She frowns, searching for the right words. He admires her for it, that even though language is difficult for her, she perseveres. She keeps trying to learn more words.

“Not the important things.” Her eyes sharpen in their certainty. “Not different. Still…brother. Still family.”

“Still my son,” Bruce says from the doorway.

Talon startles. When did Bruce show up?

“Nothing will ever change that.” Bruce walks towards them. Sits down on the empty part of the couch, so that Cass is by his one side and Bruce is by his other.

He wishes he could let the words comfort him, but he isn’t worthy of them.

Bruce hesitates, and then Talon feels strong arms wrap around him – all the way past his wings to grasp his shoulders – and then he’s. Well. He’s pulled into Bruce’s lap.

He sits there dumbly for a second, legs straight out along the couch and spine stiff with confusion, facing sideways so that his shoulder should be touching Bruce’s chest but instead one of his wings is, long and bulky and awkwardly sticking into Bruce because of course the wings would be in the way, of course they are, but then Bruce gently cups the side of his face and pushes his head until the other side of his face is pressed against Bruce’s chest. He fits snugly under Bruce’s chin, like he’s a child and not a dangerous half-brainwashed adult Talon.

Cass nods encouragingly, and Bruce swallows – he can feel the bob of the Adam’s apple against his head – and then Bruce whispers. “I love you. Always.”

And suddenly it doesn’t matter that his wings are in the way. Doesn’t matter if his eyes might be a different colour. Doesn’t matter that his bone structure is different.

He feels his dad plant a kiss on his scalp and nothing else matters anymore. Just this moment.

Dick curls up his legs so that he can lean fully into the embrace. The remainder of his tears quietly trickle out, and it feels cleansing rather than distressing. He goes boneless and just slumps in Bruce’s arms, content. Absorbing every drop of love and care that oozes out of Bruce. Soaks it in like he’s never had it before in his life.

Maybe he just doesn’t remember it – there are a lot of things he doesn’t remember, after all – but this affection seems unusual to him, like maybe this was something he didn’t get even before the Owls took him. Back when he was a Bat and not a Talon yet.

But it hardly even matters because he has it, now. Bruce is here for him, now. He’s okay. He’s finally okay.

He would have thought it impossible but Bruce manages to cradle him even closer. An embarrassing happy noise escapes from his throat. Dick feels like a kid again, but not in a bad way. Not small and powerless, but truly at ease and fully trusting. He lets himself forget everything that happened to him, everything he is now and doesn’t want to be; everything he wants to be and isn’t. Forgets everything and just breathes, feels the rise and fall of Bruce’s chest as his lungs fill and empty, and the warm exhale against his scalp. Feels Bruce’s calloused hand against his cheek, fingertips buried in his hair.

He doesn’t know how long he spends like that – probably much longer than he thinks it is, what with his inability to keep track of time – but he eventually opens his eyes.

Cass is still there. She looks very satisfied with how she was able to help, but there’s something else in her expression. Something longing. Not jealous, not at all, but a little wistful.

He remembers the rules Tim explained to him, and he thinks he could find the courage to overcome his fear of initiating physical contact if it was to comfort someone else. To be strong for someone else. And the idea kind of excites him; makes him feel warm and hopeful on the inside. Smiling and shy, he motions his hand towards himself, and Cass grins in delight. She scooches down the couch towards them.

Bruce pulls his hand away from Dick’s head, and he only minds a very little bit, because Bruce puts the arm around his daughter and pulls her close, and now he’s in a hug with _two_ people he loves. And that’s pretty great.

He closes his eyes again, safe and loved, and he feels more whole than he’s been in a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, wow, this has somehow become super fluffy. I had a lot of fun writing it, though, and usually I only find it easy to write angst, so, yay me!
> 
> Also, all your comments on this fic have been so sweet and supportive?? Thank you guys so much! And feel free to lemme know what you think or any questions you have, or what you wanna see in future chapters :)


	6. Chapter 6

Something’s wrong with him.

When he feels the itchy, achy thrum under his skin he’s supposed to hug someone, and then he feels better, and the feeling goes away. That’s how it works. That’s how his broken mind responds to feelings.

But Cass is sitting beside him, arms around his waist, and it isn’t working. His heart is thumping away in his chest, and his whole core feels like it’s shaking, vibrating, coming apart; his muscles scream with the need to run or punch or feel the sting of a cut or the ache of a bruise, his blood wants to pulse through the vessels in his body as he trains and rips into the flesh of another Talon. This is wrong, and he isn’t supposed to do this anymore, want this anymore, and he’s shaking, and he doesn’t know what’s wrong with himself.

Cass looks at him, worry dipping her eyebrows towards her eyes. She must be able to see the amount of distress vibrating out of his body, and she tightens her arms around him, and neither of them understand why it’s not working.

The hugs are supposed to fix him. When he feels broken, the hugs are supposed to remove the anxiety rattling around inside his chest.

Cass can read his body language, but she doesn’t know the solutions for things. She can hurt the bad people in Gotham to protect the good ones, and she can watch people to figure out how their muscles are preparing to attack; know their moves before they make them. She can see if someone is lying, or if they are angry or relaxed, by the tension stored in their limbs. But she isn’t a – a person who has studied the brain. She isn’t a therapist.

“What…” Cass struggles. “What do you need?”

Talon shrugs miserably. He doesn’t know why his body is doing this. It’s not supposed to do this.

“What if I,” Cass unwraps one of her arms from him, and takes a phone out from her back pocket. “Call…someone…for you?”

He can feel something wrapping its fingers around his lungs, heavy like grief and sharp like panic. Something desperate and longing. It hurts. What’s wrong with him?

Cass opens up the phone and shows him a screen. There’s a list of names, all of them belonging to the Bats. Contacts.

“Tap who,” she encourages.

Talon looks at the list of contacts. He doesn’t remember who they were, really, but he does know each of their schedules, because that’s something they explained to him in detail. Something they wanted him to know. He’s tried to memorize everything they told him, because the Owls always wanted him to retain everything, and the Bats seem to expect him to remember important information as well.

He knows that the youngest, Damian, is being chaperoned by the butler, Alfred, on a school trip. He remembers that the middle brother, Tim, is in high school, and so is Stephanie Brown. The Batman – Bruce – is at work. Barbara Gordon also has a daytime job.

Jason Todd hasn’t been talked about as much. Maybe that means he doesn’t have a daytime job. Talon really doesn’t want to bother anyone who’s busy, so he points to Jason’s name, not daring to touch the phone screen itself.

Cass seems a little surprised, but she calls without much hesitation. She presses the button that allows them both to hear the ringing phone noise.

“I don’t know how you got this number but I’m not interested in-“

“Help,” Cass says.

“Cass?” Jason sounds confused.

“Something wrong.” Cass and Talon look at each other helplessly. “Wrong with Dick.”

“Shit. Is someone injured? Did someone attack the Manor?”

“No.” Cass knows that it’s something in his mind that is wrong, but neither she nor Talon fully understand it, or can even try to express it. “Wrong with…him. Inside him.”

“Is he dissociating? Is he having a panic attack?” They can hear a motorcycle revving in the background.

Cass doesn’t know what those words mean, and she can’t interpret Jason’s body language through the phone. She looks to Talon for clarification, but his body is singing too many different anxious songs to try and reflect Jason’s words properly through his body. It’s a bizarre, inefficient game of charades and broken words that can’t successfully connect the three of them in conversation.

“Okay, are either of you in danger? Physical danger?”

This question makes more sense. Talon shakes his head.

“No,” Cass relays the message.

“Good. Is he scared? Did something happen?”

Talon shrugs again, feeling useless and pathetic. He doesn’t know why he feels like this. It’s not fair. He should at least know why his arms and legs are heavy and itchy and eager to move and terrified of motion. He should know why he feels sadness curling around in his skull like wisps of smoke.

“Don’t know.” Cass looks at Talon with concern.

“You said there was something wrong?” Jason sounds a little frustrated, but probably not at them, because they can hear wind whistle past his phone speaker and at least three different vehicles honking.

“Yes.” Cass takes a deep breath and she seems frustrated too, but not at Talon or Jason. “He is…wrong.”

The hugs are supposed to work.

“Alright,” Jason sighs. “I’m almost there. Is it something we need to fix as soon as possible, or can it wait until I’m there?”

She looks to Talon for confirmation, and he nods. It won’t be comfortable, but he can wait. Nobody is dying. He can wait.

“Can wait,” Cass confirms.

“Okay. See you in ten.”

Silence weighs down the air after Jason hangs up. Cass squeezes him a little, to try and reassure him.

It seems far longer than ten minutes by the time Jason walks into the room, posture intentionally non-threatening. Talon isn’t even insulted; just relieved. Finally, someone will be able to fix him. Maybe explain his emotions to him like Tim did.

“Are you guys okay?” Jason speaks softly, but not without strength.

“I am.” Cass motions towards him with her free hand. “Not Dick.”

“What’s wrong, Dick?” Jason looks at him seriously, like an equal.

He shrugs yet again. He doesn’t know. That’s the whole problem.

“Do you need to talk it through?” Jason asks kindly. “That always helped you before.”

He feels tears prick the edges of his eyes. Why can’t he make himself talk? There’s no danger anymore. He’s safe, and he’s allowed to talk. In fact, they _want_ him to talk, and he’s being so difficult and pathetic and he isn’t forcing himself to speak; isn’t even trying to move his lips.

“Fuck, sorry, are you still not talking?”

The tears trail down his cheeks. He _can_ talk. The Court didn’t remove his vocal cords. But they did beat the fear of talking into him, and that’s still firmly lodged inside his throat.

“It’s okay, Dick. It’s okay.” Jason wraps arms around him, like the first day Dick allowed himself to make a noise and Jason had read with him and held him as he cried.

He must have closed his eyes because he can’t see Cass or the room or the blurry sheen of tears. He focuses on the sensation of the hug, and it’s nice, but it’s not enough to make the ache inside him go away, and that frightens him.

“The problem,” Cass explains. “The hugs did not…calm his thoughts. Something is wrong.”

Jason is quiet for a few seconds. And then he begins to laugh.

“What,” Cass demands.

“Dickie, are you feeling the regular amount of awful, but this time the hug hasn’t made it all better?” Jason is still chuckling.

Dick feels a little hurt by the laughter, but Jason’s statement is true, so he nods.

“And that scared you, yeah?” Jason tries to sober his voice. “Because it usually makes you feel all the way better?”

Dick nods again, still confused; body still taut with anxiety.

“That’s what we call a bad day. Nothing’s wrong with you.” Jason readjusts his grip around Dick’s wings. “It just means that sometimes the hugs help, and sometimes they don’t help as much.”

Dick opens his eyes to look at Cass, who appears just as confused as Dick feels. Jason considers the two ex-assassins, a perfect mirror of each other’s lack of understanding of human emotion, and sighs. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. You guys just made it sound like an emergency. Like someone was dying or something.”

The desperation Dick has to make the bad feeling _go away_ must make his facial expression pleading and pitiful enough to spur Jason into action. “You’ve been through a lot, and your brain is trying to deal with it. Some days you’ll be able to cope better than others, and that’s okay.”

Dick doesn’t feel like he’s coping. Even when the hugs work, he’s still a mess, but right now he feels even worse, like he’s jittery and paralyzed at the same time.

“I won’t bullshit you. It’s not fun to suffer through a bad day when your normal days are already shitty. But it’ll pass.”

Dick would almost rather go back to just feeling scared and in pain all the time. At least the fear was familiar; comfortable, compared to…whatever this is he’s feeling. But to get that back would mean returning to the Court, and he absolutely doesn’t want to go back. He has no idea what he wants or needs to feel better and shifts his weight miserably.

“Look, I –“ Jason clears his throat sharply, as if he’s about to share something he would rather not talk about. “I don’t know how much you remember about me. But I died, and came back to life inside my own coffin, and I had to claw my way out.”

That sounds awful. Dick thinks he used to know this, but he can’t really remember any details. So he pays close attention to his brother, noticing how Jason is forcing his voice and body to remain loose and casual.

“It was dark, and cramped, and I was alone and scared.” Jason continues. “It made me really claustrophobic for a very long time. I’m mostly over it now, but every so often, something will happen and it’s like I’m right back in that grave again, and I panic. Sometimes I know what triggered it, like being trapped under debris from a fight when I’m out as the Red Hood. Sometimes it seems completely random.”

“But it happens to me less and less.” Jason’s arms seem more genuinely relaxed. “It’ll get better for you, too. It might be hard at first, but that doesn’t make you less of a person in the meantime. You’re not – you’re not a wrong version of yourself until you manage to get better.”

It’s good to hear that. It doesn’t fix his emotions, at all, but it makes him realize that he doesn’t have to feel guilty for being this way. He sneaks a quick glance at Cass who seems very relieved, as well, and it’s nice to know that he isn’t alone in how he feels. He wonders what she’s thinking of specifically. He wishes that he had all his memories so he at least knew a little more about her.

He turns to look at Jason, whose eyes are unfocused; expression thoughtful. Then his gaze sharpens and he looks straight at Dick. “Do you know sign language?”

Dick shakes his head, confused. Is he supposed to know sign language?

“I don’t really either, I just know the alphabet.” Jason grins. “We can learn together. Because you’ve been shrugging and nodding and shaking your head. You’re okay with moving, just not talking.”

The suggestion takes Dick by surprise. It seems too easy. There’s nothing wrong with his throat, and he should be trying to become comfortable with speaking again, not finding a way to avoid it. It feels like cheating.

“He does not want,” Cass interprets helpfully, “avoid…talking. With mouth.”

“Good,” Jason says firmly. “You’ve always loved talking and you should keep trying to get comfortable with it. But you deserve to be able to communicate until then.”

Dick feels himself start to smile, despite his emotions stubbornly remaining in the Bad Day category.

“Is that something you’d like to learn? Because if you’d rather not, that’s okay too.” Jason’s tone is even and straightforward, and Dick decides to believe that he’s being honest. That Jason won’t hurt him if he refuses to learn a new skill, like the Owls would have. He really does have a choice.

Does he want to learn? It definitely would be nice to be able to talk again, even if it’s with his hands and not his mouth. And anyway, Jason says that there isn’t a wrong version of himself, so speaking with sign language instead of words isn’t bad. It’s different, but not in a wrong way. Just…different. But still him.

He nods slowly. He’d like that.

“Aright, great.” Jason looks pleased. “I’ll get Tim or Barb to do some research later, on the best way to teach sign language, but I can show you guys the alphabet right now. That way if you forget how to sign a word or you haven’t learned it yet, you can still talk about whatever you want.”

Leaving one arm around Dick, Jason removes the other and holds his hand up in a fist, knuckles and thumb pointing towards the ceiling. “This is ‘A.’ Try it.”

Dick studies the way Jason has arranged his fingers, and carefully mimics the shape with his own hand. If there’s one thing he knows, from his time with the Court and the vague impression of being raised by Batman, it’s that it’s important to learn new things perfectly and exactly.

“You too, Cass,” Jason says, and Dick looks up from his hand to observe Cass.

“I speak…well enough,” Cass says fiercely; proudly. She’s fought hard for every word and Dick can tell that she feels defensive. As if Jason is suggesting that she’s weak.

But she’s not weak, is she? If it’s not wrong for Dick to learn, even though he still has the physical capability to speak, it shouldn’t be wrong for Cass, either.

“The whole family will have to learn, Cass,” Jason replies without judgement. “We’ll need to be able to understand Dick when he signs to us.”

Dick likes the way Jason talks about the future, like he has complete faith that Dick will be able to learn sign language.

“And I think you’ll like it. It’s another way of speaking with the body. It might even help you understand words better.”

Jason’s reasons aren’t pity or condescension, and Cass relaxes. “Okay.”

Jason leads them through the alphabet. It’s refreshing to be doing something again, and Dick also appreciates how it distracts his mind from how he’s feeling. His body isn’t buzzing with as much frantic energy as before, either, and he’s not really sure why but he’s definitely not complaining.

He finds himself looking forward to learning more of the signs, and it must be the first time he’s thought positively of the future in a long time; as long as he can remember. Since the Court of Owls tried to make him theirs. Deep down in his gut, almost hidden by the clench of stress and other assorted uncomfortable emotions, he finds a tiny spark of belief that the future will be better. A glimmer of something he didn’t think he was capable of anymore.

Something easier to bear than fear. More comforting than the familiarity of pain.

Hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a bit like Jason – I only know the ASL alphabet, as well as a few basic signs like Mom and Dad. So as I go forward with the fic, if you guys notice anything that doesn’t really make sense with the way I’m writing sign language, please let me know and I’ll do my best to correct it.
> 
> And thanks again for commenting and kudosing! I’ve loved writing this fic so much, and hearing you guys say which parts of my writing you enjoy is amazing. Seriously. Thank you.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished the last chapter of my other fic! If you’ve been waiting for an update or for it to be completed so you can binge it, go for it! If you haven’t read it yet but you’re liking this fic so far, you might like the other one as well, since it’s similar to this one with the hurt/comfort/recovery themes.
> 
> Also, in case anyone’s curious, I’ll mostly be using American Sign Language in this fic. I realize that ASL doesn’t use articles, and verbs are in a different order, and the verb To Be kinda sorta doesn’t exist, but because I don’t want to confuse any of my readers, I’ll be writing with regular English grammar. I’ll try to be as accurate as possible though.

Damian’s body is tensed very tightly in an intentionally casual stance. He looks very uncomfortable, like he’s waiting for something that he already knows he won’t get.

This is the first time Damian has taken a shift to keep Dick company. Dick doesn’t know what to expect, or what is expected of him, so he sits cross-legged on the floor, waiting. He’s patient and he’s happy enough to sit quietly and passively – even doing nothing is very pleasant compared to what the Court put him through – but he can tell something is bothering Damian.

“Todd and Cain said they have been teaching you sign language.” The boy’s tone seems very rigid and formal for someone so young, but then his nose scrunches the tiniest bit, regressing the maturity. “Drake as well.”

Dick nods, smiling. It’s been a good way to pass time, and it’s also made him feel more human to be able to communicate again. More like a person who can share his own opinion, instead of a slave that can only obey orders without replying.

“I have been studying it on my own.” Damian sounds hesitant and a little nervous underneath his stiff front. “I can practice with you, if you wish.”

Dick loves the idea. But even more simply practicing, he wants to talk with Damian. The youngest Bat makes him feel…different. He still doesn’t remember much about anything before his time with the Court, but he knows how each of them make him feel. And while he cares for the other Bats, he feels different about Damian. Something more protective, maybe?

“What have you learned so far?” Damian is obviously still unsure of himself, but Dick feels…proud?...at how hard he’s trying. He really hopes that talking with the boy will spark his memory a bit, so he can figure out why he feels this way. “I assume you have already gone through the alphabet.”

 _ **Yes,**_ Dick signs, both as an answer and to see if Damian knows anything past the alphabet.

Damian isn’t exactly smiling, but something in his face loosens. “I have, as well. What else have you covered, Grayson?”

Talon’s mind blanks and all he can hear is the cold echo of the Owls saying “Have you learned your lesson, Gray Son?” and “You are destined to lead the Talons as the strongest of them all, Gray Son” and he snaps to his feet, ramrod straight and at attention, eyes straight ahead and focusing on the middle-distance, ears open for orders and arms carefully still at his sides.

But his uniform doesn’t feel as heavy and stiff with blood stains as usual, and he can tell he isn’t wearing his goggles because the room isn’t tinted in that slightly orange colour.

“G- Richard.” The voice is small and scared. Unlike the loud mocking commands of the Owls or the silence of the other Talons. “I…forgot they used to address you by that name.”

Talon waits for his orders, gaze remaining straight ahead even though he’s tempted to look at the one talking to him and have his eyes stray from their proper position.

“Richard, stop it.”

Talon wishes he could obey the command, but it’s unclear what he’s supposed to stop. He’s used to more thorough directives, with very strict rules concerning what he is and isn’t allowed to do on a particular mission. Sometimes he is supposed to swoop down silently and kill without alerting anyone. (Gliding with his wings makes this easy.) Sometimes before he kills his mark, he has to recite 'the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.' Sometimes there is more than one objective, or he has to work with another Talon or two, and the instructions become even more complex.

“Richard, you are –“ the gulp is barely audible, but Talon’s enhanced hearing picks it up –“dismissed.”

His muscles relax. His gaze wanders, and he sees that he’s not in the underground compound. He’s in Wayne Manor. The youngest Bat stands in front of him, eyes wide and horrified. Did something happen?

Damian looks up at him for a few more seconds before running out of the room.

Dick realizes it’s the same look that Damian had given him when Cass was doing her katas. And it wasn’t disgust, like he’d assumed before, but one of hurt. Of ache that cut down to the soul.

Dick had done that. His conditioning, his appearance – it hurt Damian. He’d hurt his brother just by existing.

It grieves him. He has to make this right. He has to apologize.

He walks down hallway after hallway, searching for his little brother, but he still doesn’t remember the house all that well. He wanders aimlessly, not knowing where Damian is likely to run. And he’s aware that his perception of time is almost nonexistent, but he thinks the shadows off the furniture have lengthened some, so that must mean a chunk of time has passed.

He comes across a bedroom completely by accident. No one is inside, but there’s a slight fingerprint smudge over the window, and Dick guesses that the butler – Alfred – would have cleaned the pane unless it had been put there recently.

So Dick walks over to the window. He pushes it open and perches on the ledge, balancing easily. There is rain coming down, he notes. He gives the soaked yard a quick glance and doesn’t see Damian anywhere around the well-manicured lawn and shrubbery, so he flips up onto the roof and shuts the window behind himself.

The wet droplets start to dampen his sweatpants, but it doesn’t really register, because he’s learned to tune out uncomfortable sensations like that. Sometimes the Owls would drench him in ice water and cool the temperature in his cell to hypothermic conditions as a punishment, because it wasn’t like the cold would kill him with his healing factor. It just made him miserable. But this gentle spring shower is nothing and he can easily ignore it in favour of finding Damian.

He spots Damian huddled further down the roof, clothes wet. He looks up and his expression morphs from dejected to surprised.

Dick waits for permission to join Damian, but the boy doesn’t say anything. He just looks puzzled.

Their awkward, wordless stand-off comes to an end when Dick remembers he can talk with his hands and ask things. **_Can I J-O-I-N you?_** He ends up spelling out ‘join,’ not having learned the sign for that word yet.

Damian looks caught off-guard, but he nods, so Dick makes his way across the roof, bare feet planted firmly on the wet shingles. He sits close enough to Damian that they could reach out and touch each other if they wanted. Dick feels the water begin to soak through the seat of his pants.

“Why are you here?” Damian says frankly. “All I do is hurt you.”

Dick is so startled by that he can’t even think of how to reply. Damian hasn’t hurt him. If anything, it’s the other way around.

“I triggered your conditioning today, and then I fled like a – like a child, when I didn’t know what to do.” Damian glares at the eavestrough in front of them. “And before that, I upset you simply by walking past the room you were in.”

The emotion on Damian’s face had definitely made him sad, that day he had been watching Cass do her katas, but she’d been there to comfort him. And then Bruce had given Dick what he was pretty sure was the best hug in the history of the world, so he didn’t really mind. Plus, he’d kind of assumed it was his own fault for making Damian feel that way in the first place.

Damian is silent, almost like he’s expecting Dick to say something. But then he continues, so quietly that the pattering of the rain almost drowns out his voice. “And I’m the reason the Court of Owls captured you.” 

What? Dick has no recollection of this. Well, he has no recollection of a lot of things, but this seems like a pretty big thing to forget. He flips both palms up and scrunches his face a little to sign, _**What?**_

Damian looks so, so ashamed that Dick wants to wrap him up in a hug and forget about the whole thing. But the curious part of him is cruel enough to let Damian continue to talk about it. “They ambushed me. I was careless and impatient, and I left to confront the Court alone. To prove myself to Father.”

Damian’s voice shakes. It makes Dick think the water seeping through Damian’s eyelashes are tears, not raindrops. “They offered to trade me back for you. You sacrificed yourself for me and then they hurt you, for eight months, until we found a way to take down the Court and save you.”

Dick isn’t sure what Damian is feeling guilty about. It sounds like the Court held him hostage, which would make him the victim, not the one at fault.

 _ **No.**_ He motions strongly to emphasize his point. _**They hurt me. They**_ – he gestures helplessly at his wings. _**Not you.**_

Damian disagrees. “It’s still my fault.”

Dick doesn’t know how to sign enough words to further the argument. He also feels a little nervous talking, let alone disagreeing, with another person. Intellectually, he knows his family won’t hurt him for speaking against an opinion, but his emotions still feel uneasy when he argues. So he lets it go, and they sit silently. Dick’s bare chest and arms are slick with rainwater and his pants are soaked all the way through, and his hair is plastered to his head. Only the inside of his wings are still dry.

His thoughts drift, and he remembers the original reason he had wanted to find Damian.

 _ **Sorry.**_ Dick doesn’t know how to fix it, but an apology is probably a good start. _**I hurt you. I’m not the person I used to be, and that hurts you.**_

Damian looks horrified all over again. “No, Gr – Richard. It’s not your fault they changed you.”

Maybe it’s not, but the Court isn’t here anymore, and Dick isn’t back to normal yet. He can’t get his memories back. He can’t talk out loud. He inconveniences his family by being scared and panicky when silly little normal things take him by surprise. It pains them to see the state he’s in. He might not be trying to hurt anyone, but he still is.

They sit together in the rain, unwilling to accept each other’s forgiveness. Maybe that will come in time, but they’re both too raw; too hurting to attempt it. But it’s still nice to remain side by side, watching the rain slide down the roof and get collected into the gutter. It’s peaceful.

Dick turns his attention back to Damian, who seems so small with his knees pulled to his chest. He really is just a kid. He has a sudden urge to shield the boy from the rain.

Impulsively, he lifts up the wing closest to Damian, stretching it to reach over Damian’s head as a makeshift umbrella.

Damian looks stunned but not unhappy. He looks at Dick with a very serious, calculating expression – much too solemn for such a young face – and then ducks into Dick’s side, arms circling around his waist. Dick can feel happiness surging in his gut as Damian tightens his grip, so Dick wraps an arm around his little brother and tucks the wing close around him, shielding him from the downpour, and it feels _right._

He snuggles Damian closer. He wonders if this is what Bruce felt when he’d cradled Dick on his lap; this all-consuming desire to protect. To make him feel happy and secure. Maybe that’s why Dick feels different towards Damian than the rest of his family, because what Bruce is to him, Dick is to Damian. He can’t know that for sure, not until he remembers everything, but he doesn’t need all his memories back to know he cares for Damian.

He loves the kid so, so much. He doesn’t remember exchanging his life for the safety of his Robin, but he doesn't doubt it's true. Because even now, after suffering at the Court's hand for so long, he knows that if he had to, he’d trade himself for Damian all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look up “birds covering babies with wings.” Please. It’s seriously the cutest shit ever. Incidentally, that’s also what I was picturing in my head as I wrote this chapter :)
> 
> I kinda have a few ideas for scenes I want to write, but it's very loose and flexible at this point so if there's anything you wanna see happen, feel free to let me know and I might just work it in. And thanks so much for all the comments so far, seriously! It always makes my day to know what you guys thought or what parts you liked!


	8. Chapter 8

He misses Jason.

He’s been with Tim and Cass lately, the three of them helping each other get better at talking with their hands, and it’s been wonderful, but they’re smaller than him. And it’s not that they aren’t capable, or talented, or fiercely protective of him – in fact, he’s pretty sure Cass can beat up any of them, even Bruce – but they’re both his younger siblings, and they’re shorter than him.

Well. Technically Jason is younger than him, but he’s taller. He gives warm, solid hugs that make Dick feel safe.

So when his enhanced hearing picks up the sound of a motorcycle approaching the front of the manor, he smiles expectantly.

“What?” Cass says, reading his posture. Tim looks curiously between her and Dick, obviously not able to interpret his body language but seeing the happy expression on his face.

 _ **J.**_ Dick dips his pinkie in sign.

“Jay’s here?” Tim seems surprised. “I thought he wasn’t coming until right before patrol.”

“You want to meet him,” Cass smiles. Dick hadn’t realized how enthusiastic he is until she pointed it out. She frowns a little, in a way Dick has come to associate with her struggling to find the correct verbal words, and pushes her hands forward, fingers bent from her palms at a right angle. Smiles, as she remembers the English that connects to the sign. “Go ahead.”

He knows he doesn’t need permission to do things anymore, but it still makes him more comfortable. He flashes her a grin and flattens his hand, touching the tips of his fingers to his chin and then towards her. _**Thank you!**_

He scurries out of the room and down the corridor. He’s been around the manor enough that he knows how not to get lost in the never-ending, branching hallways. There’s a little nagging voice in the back of his head that says he should be ashamed for something so undignified as running (and for a hug!) but he buries it viciously with the other things he doesn’t want to think about. Like that time the Owls set him on fire. He cringes for a split second, feeling the phantom lick of flames melting his skin off his bones, and then shoves the unhappy thoughts down. He doesn’t want to be sad. He wants to be excited.

He spies Jason at the end of the next hall, facing away from Dick as he takes off his combat boots. Dick takes a running leap, using his wings to change his trajectory at the last second so instead of bowling Jason over, he lands perfectly on his back, arms and legs wrapping around his brother.

Jason barks a laugh in surprise. “Jesus fuck, Dickie.” He doesn’t seem to be angry about it, though, and even loops his arms under Dick’s legs to support the piggyback. “You miss me that badly?”

Dick nods into his shoulder. It feels like forever since he’s seen Jason. He knows it can’t have been more than a few weeks, because the seasons haven’t changed at all, but his stupid brain can’t seem to track time anymore.

“Jesus Christ.” Jason chuckles, not unkindly. “It’s been five days, Dick. Not weeks. Days.”

Dick shrugs, exaggerating the movement so Jason has no problem understanding him; doesn’t mistake the motion for simply shifting his weight. Five days, five weeks. It all seems the same to him.

Jason starts walking, talking conversationally. “I’m here because I wanted a sandwich and I ran out of bread. And there’s no way I’m buying bread before Thursday, because I refuse to lose the bet I made with the neighbours in my apartment.”

His arms are currently hugged around Jason, so he can’t sign a reply, but Jason doesn’t seem to mind. Dick expects him to continue the story, but Jason pauses thoughtfully.

“I’ve carried you like this before, you know. When you got injured as Nightwing.” Jason cranes his neck backwards to look at Dick. “Once, you broke both ankles at the same time, like a dumbass. Neither of the little baby Robins would have been able to carry you, so I had to.”

Dick can’t remember. He wishes he could.

“You were a lot heavier then.”

Dick looks away from Jason, ashamed. The human skeleton is far too heavy for flight – birds have hollow bones for that very reason – so of course the Court’s solution had been to genetically modify his anatomy. He still can’t actually fly with the wings; he would have to lose a much more significant amount of muscle mass for that to work, but he can glide pretty well. Use the wings for balance, or to control his direction if he falls.

But Jason just smiles at him. “It was like carrying a sack of bricks. I was glad to dump you into the Batmobile as soon as I could. But hey, you’re like a sack of balloons now. So I guess that means –“ he groans dramatically –“I have no excuse. I’m stuck carrying you around for as long as you want.”

Dick feels the corners of his mouth turning up against his will.

“So I’m here for a sandwich,” Jason continues. Dick realizes he must be walking towards the kitchen. “You want anything?”

He doesn’t need food anymore, so he shakes his head, hair tousling against Jason’s neck.

“Not even a cookie?”

Dick considers this. He doesn’t _need_ food, but Jason hadn’t asked if he needed anything. He’d asked if Dick _wanted_ anything. So he slowly, carefully, hesitantly gives a tiny, shy nod.

Jason smirks. “I thought so.”

They reach the kitchen. Jason frees his arms so he can open the fridge door, reaching for a plate of three and a half pre-made cucumber sandwiches. Dick somehow knows these are leftovers from a post-patrol snack made by Alfred. Jason practically inhales them, and then washes and puts away the plate.

Jason returns his arms to hold Dick’s legs, true to his word that he’d keep piggybacking Dick as long as he wanted to be held. He stops by the cookie jar on his way out of the room. “Take them.”

Dick unwraps one arm from around Jason’s shoulders. He takes the lid off and sets it carefully on the counter, moving to pick a cookie, but Jason shakes his head playfully. “Take the whole jar.”

The whole jar?

“It’s fine,” Jason is assuring him. “Alfie won’t mind.”

He doesn’t even need to eat, and Jason is telling him to take the whole jar. There has to be at least a dozen cookies inside.

“Dick, it’s okay,” Jason encourages him, grinning, so he finally grabs the rim of the jar with one hand, heart racing. He tightens his grip and Jason walks out of the room, and Dick’s heartrate spikes and he wonders if he’s stealing and breaking a rule but he feels more elated than panicked. He likes cookies, and now he has so many of them!

He removes his other arm from its grip around Jason so he can take a cookie. But instead of sliding it into his own mouth, he decides to offer it to Jason, first.

He taps it against Jason’s lips, who snorts another laugh but opens his mouth compliantly. Once Jason has it set in his teeth, Dick goes to grab his own.

Without his hands free, Jason is making slightly ridiculous facial expressions to keep from dropping the cookie, and Dick stifles his giggle by stuffing a cookie in his own mouth. The taste dances across his tongue just as deliciously as it did with his first cookie, with Bruce.

Jason takes a right at the end of the hall and they run into Alfred.

Jason swallows the cookie. Dick feels his heart clench. They’re in trouble they’re in trouble they’re in trouble –

“Master Jason,” Alfred says reproachfully.

– oh God it’s Dick’s fault it’s his fault not Jason’s oh God –

Jason, crazy as always, has absolutely no fear in his face as he downright _pouts._ “But Alfred, Dick likes cookies!”

– and then Dick remembers that he’s never had a painful punishment at Wayne Manor, not even once, and Alfred’s fake-stern face melts into something fond. “Just this once, then.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Jason says with a shit-eating grin, and Alfred just shakes his head, and the emotion spilling between the cracks in his stoic façade is amusement, not anger. So Dick relaxes, the rapid _thumpthumpthump_ of his heart slowing down, and Jason resumes his pace.

As soon as Alfred is out of earshot, Jason smirks at Dick conspiratorially. “Y’see, whenever I act a little like I would have before I died, they get all soft and nostalgic and teary. I’ve been slowly working up to more ridiculous things to see what I can get away with.”

Jason, in Dick’s humble opinion, is either the bravest or stupidest man he’s ever met.

“This is actually a bit of a regression,” Jason admits. “I’d worked up to ‘accidentally’ flooding the suite bathroom off of Bruce’s master bedroom, but I got away with that one by saying the full bathtub reminded me of the Lazarus Pit. Which it did, but that’s not the point –“

Jason stops. “Which way are Tim and Cass?”

Dick points to the correct hallway, unfinished cookie in his hand. Jason plods on, filling the silence with awkward rambling sentences so Dick doesn’t have to. “Anyway, a little rebellion is good for the soul. And I was thinking, you and me should team up. My death was the first casualty of Bruce's crusade so I’ll always be special, but your trauma is the most recent, right? So together we could get away with pretty much anything.”

Dick munches slowly, still on his first cookie, savouring the flavour. Jason is talking again, but Dick is only half-listening, focusing on enjoying the moment. And Jason has proven time and time again that he isn’t like the Owls, and he won’t beat Dick for not paying attention and memorizing every word spoken.

So he lets his thoughts drift happily. Relaxes completely, because he knows Jason will keep him safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely suggestions in the comments from the last chapter! I may get around to all of them or none of them, but I seriously liked all the ideas. and uh also, I thought I had a plot but like whatever loose framework I had is even more vague now. This might just remain my fluff/angst/cuddle dump for when I get new ideas. And when I get just a liitttle bit sad that I haven't seen so many of my friends since the quarantine.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is literally the only romantic content y’all will get in this fic. I know I rated it gen, so yell at me in the comments if you think I should change it and I will, I don’t mind, but I feel like changing it from gen just for this scene is overkill? Actually I have no idea how ratings work. Please let me know lol.
> 
> Also. Massive thanks to my friend [ArcherSceptile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcherSceptile/pseuds/ArcherSceptile) for helping me figure out how to make this chapter work! I rewrote the plot for the next several chapters like, a dozen times (hence the long gap between chapter 8 and chapter 9 oops) but he helped me finally decide on which route to take!
> 
> So, uh. Hope you enjoy :)

It’s the first time he’s seen her.

She was coordinating everything when the Bats took down the Court of Owls, so he never got to see her in action as Batgirl. And she hasn’t been to the Manor since then. She’s saying words, probably explaining how it’s her turn to spend time with him, but he’s not really listening, feeling somehow distracted.

Dick thinks she just introduced herself as Barbara, but his head automatically corrects it to ‘Babs,’ and that sounds right. He looks at her, and somehow he knows how it would feel to press his lips against hers, thumbs and fingers in her beautiful red hair, feeling the warmth of her scalp and the heat of the kiss. It’s the closest thing to a memory of his past life that he’s ever had.

So he leans closer to her, but right before their lips meet she pulls away.

“No, we can’t.” Barbara looks up at him with regret. “Not right now.”

He feels ice shoot through his body, the warmth of the memory forgotten. His hand shakes as he brings it up to his forehead to sign. _**Why?**_

Barbara purses her lips. “You still don’t remember anything before the Court, and you’re still recovering. We’ve had a couple messy breakups already that hurt us both, and it’s not fair to you if we get back in a relationship when I remember everything and your memories are mostly gone. And they will come back in time, Dick.”

She’s probably trying to protect him. But it still feels like she’s stomping on a tiny flame of hope that he didn’t even know he had, and it hurts terribly now that it’s gone.

 _ **We could try.**_ He knows he must look pathetically desperate.

Barbara shakes her head. “It wouldn’t be fair to you.” And then her face pinches into something like grief: “and it would be too hard for me. I – neither of us could handle dating right now.”

And that’s when he notices how carefully she’s keeping her gaze on his face. In conversation, people’s eyes naturally drift around, so for her to be looking at him so steadily in such an emotional conversation, she must be avoiding looking at –

His wings twitch a little, involuntarily. _**Do you not like how I look anymore?**_

“No,” she says quickly, eyes pained. “No. That’s not it.”

 _ **It’s fine.**_ He tries to smile. It wouldn’t be fair of him to expect Barbara to still be attracted to him. He looks so different now.

“No, really, Dick.” The heartbreak in her voice is almost enough to convince him. “I – I’ve never dated anyone who’s made me feel the way you have. I’ve never loved anyone as deeply as you. If we ever decided to date again, it would be because we were seriously committed to making it work, and I don’t think we can make that decision right now. Either of us.”

She loves him. Or, she loves who he used to be.

Dick is too traumatized; too fragile. Too weak to handle a relationship. He sees that now.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Barbara says gently. “I don’t want you to feel like you aren’t a good enough boyfriend. I want you to have a chance to recover and figure yourself out again, without the burden of figuring out a relationship as well.”

It would be too hard for her to date the traumatized shell of the man he used to be. Maybe she is saying this for his benefit as well, but it’s also most likely because she doesn’t want to cut herself on his sharp and jagged edges. He can imagine how hard it would be to support someone as broken and mentally unstable as he is.

He tries to keep his motions light and his face positive. _**I understand.**_

She starts to say something else, but he runs out of the room.

Dick keeps running until he finds a bedroom – the one they said used to be his, back when he needed to do things like sleep – and closes the door, and crawls under the bed covers, and sobs.

He’s not angry at her. He’s not even angry at himself. He recognizes that this is necessary; that he isn’t ready to date her. That he owes it to himself, and to her, to focus on recovering first.

It still tears his heart in two.

He heals too quickly for his eyes to stay swollen, despite how hard he’s rubbing them. There are, however, partially dried tears all over his face. He doesn’t feel much better, after the cry. Just slightly sticky.

He pushes the blankets off himself. Wallowing in self-pity didn’t work. Maybe finding someone else will help.

He pads down the hallways, uncertain what direction he should take or who he should look for. He wanders aimlessly, miserably, until his feet take him past the main bathroom and he stops, something catching his eye.

He walks slowly into the bathroom, eyes straight ahead.

This is, somehow, the first time he’s looked in the mirror. He saw his reflection in glass building windows when he was out doing the Court’s bidding, but he was also decked in head to toe uniform. Here, he’s only wearing sweatpants.

His face is blotchy with tears, but his eyes are a brilliant gold.

He blinks, half expecting the colour to revert to its original blue, but it remains.

His eyes are lighter; clearer than the colour of his wings, which are more of a warm amber-honey shade. Like someone threw some red-brown dirt into paint the colour of his eyes and stirred. Mixed the combination until it was mostly one colour, but with some darker variation in the underfeathers.

He’s much, much more narrow at his shoulders and hips than he used to be, and much thinner as well. His skin is the same tone and the structure of his facial features seems to be the same, at least. Well, except for his eye colour. He assumes the change is a result of the enhancements that give him better night vision.

He sees Jason enter the doorway behind him in the mirror’s reflection and whips around to face him, feeling like he’s been caught breaking a rule.

“Are you okay?”

He doesn’t know how to answer. He turns around to look in the mirror again, as much to avoid answering Jason as to study himself.

Jason walks up to the mirror, looking at him expectantly. Waiting for a reply.

Is he okay? He… he doesn’t know.

He thinks about what Barbara said. He thinks about how his appearance hurt Damian by triggering the boy’s guilt. He thinks about Cass, insisting that he isn’t a monster.

He thinks about Tim, who treats him with the dignity and respect of any other regular human. He thinks about Bruce, who sees a son before he sees a brainwashed assassin.

He looks at Jason, who’s never pressured him to act like the man he used to be, and simply accepted him in the here and now.

 _ **I’m different,**_ he says, hands slow as he tries to think how to explain his thoughts. _**I’m not ugly, I don’t want to complain, I don’t look not human like some**_ – he doesn’t know the word so he fingerspells it – _**T-A-L-O-N-S. I’m lucky.**_ He shrugs.

Jason regards him with a carefully neutral expression. “Just because you don’t look like Frankenstein’s monster doesn’t mean you can’t complain. You can still be unhappy even if the other Talons had it worse.”

He looks himself in the eyes as he signs. _**I would not have P-I-C-K-E-D to change me this way. But I – but –**_

“My eyes,” Jason interrupts. “They used to be blue.”

Dick tears his gaze away from himself to look at his brother, first via the mirror and then directly to the man beside him.

“Them being green, and the white hair. It’s from the Lazarus Pit.” Jason shrugs. “Talia never asked before she threw me in the Pit. I’d rather look a little different than be brain dead, so I’m not mad she did it. And it’s not even like I look terrible like this. But it’s different.”

 _ **Change you did not P-I-C-K.**_ Dick forms his hand into a ‘Y’ and shakes it between himself and Jason. _**Same as me.**_

“Yeah.” Jason shifts his weight. “It took a little getting used to.”

Dick looks at himself again critically, taking in his appearance. He stretches his wings up and out, seeing his full wingspan for the first time. He tucks them back close to his body and leans forward, to better see his eyes. Their yellow-gold hue somehow still surprises him.

He used to have his father’s eyes.

But the way he looks now isn’t… horrible. It’s still not what he wants, but maybe he just has to get used to it.

Maybe he’s not stuck in a new body he hates. Maybe it’s just… him. A new him that Dick will have to get used to, obviously, and different in a way he never would have chosen, but. Still him, nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now that I have more of a plan for the plot, I’ll be able to get the next chapter out much sooner than a five month gap lol. Thanks for being patient! It blows me away that you all like the story so much and I keep getting comments on it, even so long after an update.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partially inspired by Batman and Robin (2009) #20! I’m a big ol’ comic nerd and love tying in canon stuff whenever I can.
> 
> Also, reminder that the only romantic content was last chapter and there is absolutely nothing Alabama going on here. So if you’re ever like ‘uh, is this romantic or platonic’ yes it’s all platonic love no incest here :)
> 
> And uh, oops, I know this is two months after the last update but the chapter is longer to make up for it? Anyway I’ll stop rambling so you can read and enjoy

“If you wouldn’t mind passing the strawberries, Master Richard.”

Dick reaches for the container hesitantly, holding it up in a question, and gets a kind nod in reply. He carefully slides it over the counter to – to Alfred.

Dick watches Alfred methodically pour in other ingredients, including a bright orange jar that says Ovaltine, and puzzles over Alfred. The man is… a butler. But he is Bruce’s sort of dad. But he is also technically his servant?

The honorary use of ‘Master’ confuses him as well. Dick – Talon – had Masters, but they were never kind to him like Bruce is to Alfred. And he is in no way Alfred’s master. Alfred is the one who gently reminds him of the house rules. Alfred is someone the Bats respect and look to for guidance.

Being around Alfred also makes Dick feel calm and safe, for reasons he can’t explain.

Tim is in the room, making popcorn. He smiles at Dick. “We used to do these movie nights sometimes when you and Bruce were both Batman. It’ll be great to do it again.”

 _ **I,**_ Dick signs. _**Don’t need food.**_

“You don’t need cookies, either, but you like them, right?” Tim says. He gives the popcorn machine a little shake, and the kernels pop a little faster. “Just try the shake. You’ll like it.”

But it’s not a question of whether or not he’ll like it. Anything Alfred makes is probably amazing, if the cookies are anything to go by. But he doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need to eat, and Dick doesn’t even remember these good movie times. Why should he waste a whole cup of milkshake when it obviously means more to the family? He feels like an outsider intruding on a tradition.

He startles when he feels a poke on his left wing, and whips around to see Cass behind him.

She scrunches her face in question, pointing to herself and then signing ‘F’ with both hands and moving them in a circle. _**Am I family?**_

Cass? Family? Dick nods immediately. Of course she is. She’s a daughter, a sister, a Batgirl.

“If I am,” Cass says. “So are you.”

Dick bites his lip. She makes it sound so simple, but part of him insists it can’t be true. Maybe he used to be, but he’s different, now. Different in a way he didn’t ask for, doesn’t want to be, but still different nonetheless.

“I see your… doubt.” Cass says gently. “In…” she gives up on finding the words and signs _**Shoulders. Neck. Eyebrows. Jaw.**_

Dick realizes how much tension he’s holding in those areas and tries to relax. The way Cass reads the body, he must be practically screaming his insecurities.

“You, care. For us. We care for you.” She smiles. “Simple.”

He wants it to be that simple. God, does he want it. But just because he wants it doesn’t mean they deserve to be burdened with him –

Without warning, Cass flings herself at him, legs wrapping around his waist and arms around his neck. He blinks and makes a confused startled noise. Arms still hanging limply at his sides. She’s not heavy, really, being small and short and wiry.

“Master Timothy and I will be bringing the food to the family theatre,” Alfred is saying. “We would like very much if you joined us, Master Richard.”

“Carry me?” Cass speaks in a mixture of question and demand. It’s clear what she wants, but she’s giving him an out, in case it’s not what he wants.

She wants him.

She wants _him._

He smiles, and wraps his arms around his sister.

Alfred and Tim are being careful not to drop the popcorn and drinks, but as Dick trails behind them, he feels like he’s carrying something far more precious. His heart feels so warm and full and happy.

He can’t believe how incredibly lucky he is, to hold someone as amazing as Cass. Someone so sweet and compassionate and selfless. One of, if not the, deadliest hand-to-hand combatants in the world. Someone so incredibly strong that she walked away from the life she was raised in and forged her own path. All the experiences she’s had, and how wildly wonderful she is to have lived through it all. He can’t believe he’s holding all of that, compacted into one small Cass-shaped package.

He can’t believe someone that incredible wants _him._

He feels hyper-aware of everything. The condensation beading on the glasses containing the milkshakes. The sound of their feet on the hallway floor. How warm Cass is in his arms. The exact tension of his arms around her, trying to be tender but hold her securely. Tim is rattling off movie details, something about how old Matthew Broderick was in 1986, and Alfred is making polite interested noises, and Cass is sitting in his arms contentedly.

It feels… good. Really good.

Tim is now talking about the changing style of romcoms in cinema history, walking backwards into a door to push it open without setting down the popcorn. Alfred is tying it in with the theatre scene, and Tim’s eyes light up, and Dick wants to follow their conversation because it seems interesting, but he keeps getting distracted by how good it feels to hold his sister, so eventually he gives up. The Owls aren’t here to hold him to a high standard of exact knowledge retainment and perfection. He’s not going to be beaten until his bones break. It’s okay if he doesn’t pay attention.

Tim holds the door open with his back, and Dick and Alfred walk into the Wayne Manor home theatre. There’s an impressively large flatscreen TV, and an enormous surround sound system.

There are windows that show the back of the Manor grounds. It isn’t well lit, like the front, so all he can really see is the sky, and the black mass of what must be trees against the stars.

Bruce is inside the room already, by the windows. He moves to pull the thick curtains closed, probably to minimize glare on the screen, but suddenly Dick can’t bear the thought of not being able to see the sky. He feels… good, right now. He doesn’t want to feel shut in and trapped.

Cass shifts her weight and he instinctively opens his arms to let her jump down.

“Wait,” she says, darting over to the windows. “Dick does not want.”

Bruce turns around, confused. “He doesn’t want the curtains?”

Dick feels stupid. It’s not the type of thing that usually bothers him. It doesn’t even really scare him or trigger him. He wouldn’t have said anything, but Cass read him like she always does –

“Closed,” Cass says impatiently. As if The Batman is a small, confused child. “He does not want them closed.”

Bruce looks chastened and still just as confused, but he does take his hand off the curtain. “Is something wrong?”

“Reminds him, of being,” Cass says, pausing to rub her fingertips together and then slide one hand under the other. “Underground.”

Understanding and guilt flashes over Bruce’s face. “Dick… I wasn’t thinking. I’m… I’m sorry.”

 _ **It’s alright.**_ Dick is struck again by how understanding and accommodating the family is. How they go out of their way to make him feel comfortable.

He doesn’t deserve it.

The four of them are interrupted by Jason, Damian and… Stephanie Brown?... in the middle of a loud but friendly argument.

“– then what is the point?” Damian insists. “If I wanted to hear inane prattle from civilians, I could simply go to a restaurant, or a store, or a –“

“Because not everything is about violence,” Jason rolls his eyes. “Just because there are no guns or superpowers doesn’t mean it’s not an enjoyable movie.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” the blonde girl snorts. Dick is 95% sure this is Stephanie, but he hasn’t officially met her since being saved from the Court. “Mr. I’ll Clean Up Gotham My Way, shooting bullets in knees and greeting everyone with a fight to the death.”

“Hey, I haven’t killed anyone in years, Stephie,” Jason says, as Damian interrupts him.

“Tt. Brown is correct for once. You revel in violence.”

“Yeah, didn’t you attack Cass the very first time you met her?” Stephanie chimes in with a grin. “Ya big hypocrite.”

“Hey!” Jason protests. “She attacked me first!”

“Testing you,” Cass says, her face strangely blank. “I saw you… okay, with killing. I… left… David Cain. For that. Did not want to join, the Bats, if they… okay with killing too.”

The silence is heavy and awkward. Jason especially looks uncomfortable, and Dick swears he can feel the blood of his kills dripping from his fingers.

Surprisingly, Damian is the one to break the quiet. “I suppose I can attempt to enjoy the film.”

“Attempt,” Jason scoffs, sounding far too relaxed to be genuine. “You lucky bastard. You get to watch Ferris Bueller for the first time.”

“Oh my gosh, he’s right,” Stephanie says mournfully. “I’ll never be able to see it for the first time again. We’ve all seen it except for you, Damian.”

Alfred chides “language, Master Jason” at the same time as Tim enters the conversation with Damian and Jason, and Bruce is changing the settings on the TV display while Barbara enters the room and Cass walks over to greet her. Dick feels like his brain is overheating trying to process everything at once.

“Hi, I’m Steph,” Stephanie Brown says, and Dick is grateful to know what to focus on. It’s much less stressful to concentrate on this conversation, not the entire room. “I know we’ve met before, but with the whole amnesia thing, it’s probably more polite of me to introduce myself again, so.”

 _ **Hi,**_ Dick waves.

“I only really saw you out of costume before you had all the wings and everything, and you were um,” Steph blushes, “good-looking then, but now, damn, you look like you were sculpted by Michelangelo himself.”

Dick blinks. Huh?

“Inside thoughts, Steph,” she claps a hand to her mouth, eyes wide and horrified, “Holy inner monologue issues, Batman –“

Dick feels his lungs forcefully exhale a couple times as the corners of his mouth turn up. He can’t remember the last time he laughed. _**It’s alright.**_ It’s funny, to think of himself as better looking now than before. He’s spent so much time hating himself, and hating what was done to him. But maybe objectively he looks more angelic than monstrous. It’s an interesting idea.

“Let me in on the joke?” Dick jumps a little at Bruce’s voice behind him. Bruce isn’t smiling with his mouth, but his eyes are happy and proud and his shoulders look more relaxed than Dick has ever seen him. Well, with what little memories he has of the man.

Stephanie seems immensely glad she hasn’t offended Dick, but still supremely embarrassed. Her face is a rather impressive shade of red.

He has the urge to tease, to lessen the tension and cover for her embarrassment, and so he does. _**J-E-A-L-O-U-S of me. I can’t remember the movie. I will be watching it for the first time again.**_

Poor Stephanie turns an even brighter red colour, and Bruce seems like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “First Jason and death jokes, and now this. You boys will be the death of me.”

“I call dibs,” Jason hollers, grabbing at the drink and popcorn bowl set furthest away from the TV. Dick realizes that Alfred must have put down the milkshakes and snacks at each seat in the room, while he was focusing on the conversation with Bruce and Stephanie.

“Why,” Tim snorts, “because you think there’s half a mouthful more milkshake in that cup? Grow up, Jason.”

“Because then I get an armchair all to myself, and you all have to share the couch,” Jason says smugly. Tim rolls his eyes, Damian and Bruce sit down next, Steph says something to Babs and Dick would like everything to slow down, please, there’s too much happening at once, and he looks down at the floor and focuses on breathing for a few seconds.

Thankfully, by the time he looks back up, the Bats are all mostly sitting down. Dick sees the last unclaimed drink and snack pair at the edge of the couch closest to him, and perches on the arm of the couch rather than the empty cushion. He realizes Tim is sitting beside him. He hopes Tim figures out that he’s sitting on the arm because it’s more comfortable, not because he dislikes Tim and wants to sit far away.

The movie begins and he can’t relax, at first, preoccupied by the various members of his family eating and drinking and trying to find the most comfortable position to sit, and doing his best to remember all the scenes in the movie, and keeping track of how fast everyone is eating. He doesn’t want to eat his own popcorn too quickly or too slowly, or drink too weirdly – when was the last time he actually drank something from a straw? – and he’s on edge, waiting for someone to react to him, waiting for someone to notice how he doesn’t blend seamlessly into the family movie night tradition.

He reaches for his drink as subtly as he can, and then sticks the plastic of the straw to his lips. No one says anything when he quietly takes his first sip, so he takes another, and _damn,_ that’s good. It’s so, so good, the taste singing a chorus of flavours on his tongue.

He has the distinct impression that he’s had this type of drink before, and pulled the straw almost all the way out of the beverage to make an obnoxious slurping sound to annoy someone. He currently doesn’t want to make any noise so he very carefully _does not_ do that, but it’s… comforting, to know that he’s had this before. He’s enjoyed this before.

He’s reaching for his popcorn when something out the window makes him freeze.

He hopes desperately he imagined it, or it was the flash of light reflecting in regular binoculars, or a sniper scope; anything else, really, but then he sees it again. That godawful yellow-orange glint of Talon goggles.

He falls off the arm of the couch and onto his shoulder, on the ground, the thump startling a shout from one of the Bats as he scrambles to get his legs under him and he runs, he’s running out of the room, he doesn’t want the Court, not here, Tal – _Dick,_ his name is Dick, not Talon – Dick runs, and runs, and runs.

He tears blindly down the halls and into a random room and hides behind something, a cabinet, curling his knees to his chest and cowering against the wall.

He bunches his wings as tight and close to his back as he can. He can hear his heartbeat thumping in his ears, matching the pounding in his chest, and his breaths seem unbearably noisy in the still and dark of the room.

Who sent the Talon? Jason said the Court was nearly completely eradicated. Was there only one Talon, or had some unknown reserve of Talons been awakened? Why were they here? To take him back, or to hurt him, or to hurt the family?

His bare feet stick to the cold tile of the room, and they feel clammy and gross, and he’s shaking, and he’s trying to quiet his breaths so he can be silent and still but it’s not working, and he’s starting to hyperventilate.

“Dick? What happened?”

They’re going to take him back; he doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t want to go back. He wants his family, and their hugs and cookies and milkshakes and patience for him, and maybe he doesn’t deserve it but he wants, he wants it so badly it hurts.

“Dick, look at me.”

He feels something clawing at his shoulder, and realizes it’s his own hand, arms wrapped around himself tightly, fingernails digging into his own skin until he feels something wet and the trickle of warm blood down his back.

“Dick,” and hands are on his face moving his head forcefully and he freezes, holding his breath and locking his muscles and he doesn’t want pain he doesn’t want to be punished he’s sorry he was a bad Talon and he’s sorry he’s sorry

and then the hands are off, and he can breathe again. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have grabbed you. Shit. I’m sorry. I’m sorry Dick, I was just trying to get your attention, fuck, can you look at me? Please?”

Not an Owl, or a Talon, but Jason, crouching in front of him.

“Can you tell me what scared you?”

Dick shakes his head miserably. He can’t talk, he can’t, he wasn’t allowed but he is now but he’s still too scared, he’s pathetic, his vocal chords and his throat and his mouth refuse to say the words and he hates it.

“Yes you can. You have your signs, Dick.” Jason sounds so confident. “You’re allowed to use your hands, remember?”

Jason must be right. Dick knows how to sign, his brain just feels like it’s full of TV static and the words are just out of reach.

He raises his right hand shakily, blood under his fingernails, and jerkily motions behind him. _**Before.**_

Good, he signed the time. So that Jason knows he means the past tense, not that he can currently see a Talon.

He wonders if he’s signing in slow motion or if it just feels like that, his breathing still much too shallow and fast.

He brings two fingers up to his eyes, and then drops his hand forward. _**See.**_

_**T.**_ He doesn’t even want to fingerspell it, to make it real and tangible and true. He squeezes his eyes shut and signs the rest of the letters as quickly as he can. _**A-L-O-N.**_

“Where?” Jason asks.

He tries to remember the correct way to sign it, mind still fuzzy and buzzing with panic. He flattens his hands, sliding his right hand through the third and fourth fingers of his left. _**Through.**_

He stacks his hands on top of each other, palms facing himself, and moves the top hand up and down. _**Window.**_

He wants Jason to hug him and he wants to cry and sob and have Jason tell him everything will be alright.

 _ **Forest.**_ And that’s it, that’s all he can say for now, and now his eyes are shut and he’s crying but Jason’s arms are around him and he’s leaning into the hug and maybe it’ll all be okay, now.

Jason turns his head away from Dick, just long enough to bark out “Bruce check the trees in the East property for Talons,” and then turns back to lean his head overtop of Dick’s.

He feels like he’s quaking down to his core, but he stops trembling quite so violently as Jason murmurs “I’m so proud of you, Dickie. You were so fucking brave to talk, even though you were scared.”

Scared is almost too mild a word. He’s terrified, more than he can remember ever being before. He can hardly bear the thought of being snatched from life at Wayne Manor and shoved back into his cold, pain-filled existence at the mercy of the Court. He clings to the front of his brother’s shirt, shaking so hard he thinks he’d fall apart if it weren’t for Jason’s arms around him.

“You’re safe." Jason's voice is low and comforting. “I won’t let them take you back. I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

Dick chokes on a sob, leaning deeper into Jason’s chest.

“I promise,” Jason whispers, holding him tighter. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been so grateful for all the comments and feedback on this fic, way more than I ever thought I’d get, so thanks again!!! I reread old comments sometimes to like get motivation to write and try to include stuff I know you guys will like, and I super super appreciate it.

**Author's Note:**

> on hiatus. I will continue writing other fics and I do intend to eventually finish this one, but at the moment I'm finding it extremely triggering to write Bruce as a positive father figure like I have been so far for this fic. dealing with a lot of personal shit right now and I'd much rather rant write Bad Dad Bruce than anything else lol.
> 
> but thank you so much for all the support and comments, I love hearing your thoughts on my writing and rereading the comments for like inspiration and encouragement! just thought I'd tack this on to the end in case people keep checking for updates.


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